Background: I don’t recall which novel we were reading at the time, but in sophomore HS English we did a unit on the Great Depression. The culminating assignment was to create a collection of media that would have come from a typical child living in the 1930’s. My media selections were a poem, a postcard, a report card, and a series of letters in the form of a diary. It’s a rather long fictional read, but I rather enjoyed writing it!
The 1930’s Diary of Mildred Alice Evangel
(c) May 2006 to Vivian Lee
English II Pre-AP 5th period Billingsley
Prologue – Dec. 1st, 1935
Dear my grandchild,
I think it’s funny to think that someday I’ll be a grandmother and you’ll be reading these letters just as if I were from some faraway place reachable by plane. But there will be so many years between now and then I’m not sure how strange it’ll be. Are there flying cars yet? Self-opening doors? Machines that can talk and think like people?
Maybe I should tell you a bit about myself first – just in my case my own daughter doesn’t tell you about me (although I’m sure I’ll make sure she did!) I’m a little girl, probably like you are (or should I write it, “will be?”) My full name is Mildred Alice Evangel, but everybody just calls me Millie. As of right now, I’m twelve years old and live in a fairly small town in Pennsylvania.
My father used to have a job in the bank, and from what mother says we used to be very rich. I wouldn’t really know, though, because I was born on December 1st of 1920. The year of Black Tuesday, I was not even six years old. Besides, I didn’t really care about money. I guess I took things for granted, like Auntie Mildred says. She’s the aunt I was named after, but she and I don’t think anything alike, although we do have the same short, straight hair and wide brown eyes.
When 1930 began, it was like a cold wind blew in and cut off all optimism. Everyone started getting worried and didn’t really stop to relax and have fun anymore. It wasn’t until later that year that my mother explained that we were in the depths of something called a “depression”, and life would be this way for a while.
For my birthday this year (that’s today!) I received a little red book that my mother bought from one of her ladies’ reading society friends. It’s not brand new, but it has a nice scent, and the pages are elegantly yellowed. I went right upstairs after supper, and here I am writing in it!
Mother used to say that I would make up stories before I could even walk. She said that I was a born writer and would someday sell many books. I don’t know about selling many books, but I do know that I love to write and am at the head of my composition class!
Well, until later, my dear grandchild (a childish giggle here), please enjoy my letters. The people of your time have probably forgotten all about the children of our era. So that is why I believe my letters can help preserve in time that little bit of myself.
Letter #01 ~ Home and Neighbourhood (Dec. 10th, 1935)
March of this year, we moved out of our large house and into this smaller one. I really don’t like it, but mother says to just think that it’s better than the streets the homeless people sleep on. I suppose she’s right too. I could very well be one of the people who have to ride the rails or camp out under a tent in the Midwest, but at least I have a house.
That’s not to say it was a very pretty house. If you’re curious, I think I shall describe our house to you, and our neighbourhood too.
When we moved in, the ladies next door gave us a welcoming party – as if there was anything happy to welcome. Everyone seemed gloomy and bleak, but they tried their best to add a touch of happiness to our lives. No matter what it was, anything that took people’s minds off the Depression was a happy thing.
These ladies would later form a reading society with my mother. It was just another aversion from the Depression and the troubles. They would sit together on the porch with old, tarnished copies of classics such as Jane Eyre and Great Expectations, drinking homemade lemonade (which was comprised of mostly water with only a pinch of lemon juice and hardly any sugar) and discussing the plotlines of the novels. I’ve tried reading Jane Eyre once, craftily taken from my mother’s dark rosewood bookshelf, but halfway through the second chapter my head began to hurt – it was much too dreary and boring for me.
Our entire house is old and used – mother says it used to be a snowflake white, but years of neglect and use have made it a dirty gray-brown. The outside has wood planks covering the sides (a few are breaking and you can peer through them and see part of the foundation of the house!).
Inside, it’s not much different. There are only five rooms – a kitchen, a living room, a bedroom for my parents, one for me (which also doubles as a miscellaneous storage room), and a bathroom. The walls are a dirty white as well.
The porch can be reached by going out the back screen door (which is full of holes and doesn’t do much to keep the mosquitoes out). Like the house, it has wooden planks. We have a small wicker chair and a few plastic ones, in addition to an unstable two-person table.
The kitchen is so small that whenever my mother cooks we’re not to come in or there will be no room to move around. There are the necessities – sink, oven, shelves. We used to own a refrigerator, but what the use of that was more than any of us could see. It cost too much to keep, and there wasn’t much food anyways, so we gave it away.
The countertops are an off-white and the shelves are rough wood. The sink and oven are right next to each other on the right side with the shelves above them, and on the left is our little eating table. It’s rectangular, and seats four people. The tablecloth we have on it is actually an old curtain featuring faded pink flowers – nobody has money for luxuries like tablecloths anymore.
The living room and bedrooms are all the exact same style. We have a radio, placed on a coffee table in the living room, and one two-person sofa. There is nothing else. No pretty paintings on the wall or flowers sitting in cheery vases like we used to at our old house. Next to the coffee table are two cardboard boxes, which stores miscellaneous things. When one enters the door, you enter right into the living room. There are then three doors that lead into the bedrooms and kitchen.
My parents’ bedroom has one bed, two chests of clothes, and a bookshelf where my mother keeps her books. Next to the bed is a nightstand, and in that drawer is where my mother keeps her jewelry and precious things, since she no longer has a fancy dressing table. At the far corner is a rolltop desk – probably the most expensive thing that we own, since it’s really old, made of cherry wood, and is my father’s treasured possession.
My bedroom is about the same, except I don’t have any chests. Instead, I hang my clothes from nails that my father put into the wall. It makes me happy, though, to see all of my clothes surrounding me at night, as if I were in the midst of a huge closet. I have a very small table (like the table on the porch) to do my homework. I don’t have a nightstand or bookshelf – anything else that I have, I must stack on the floor. My bed is smaller than my parents’, of course.
If the house is small, then the bathroom must be miniscule. It is no larger than the size of my bed, really. The bathtub is so small I must curl up when I sit down in it. The white porcelain is chipped, as is the toilet. There is no sink in the bathroom – we must wash our faces and hands and brush our teeth at the kitchen sink. There are a few nails in the bathroom where my mother hung some satchels with scented flower petals – it makes the bathroom smell better than it looks.
All of the other houses in the neighbourhood don’t fare much better. Ms. Rika, who lives on our left, has a house like ours, except her interior walls are painted a peach-pink colour, and her furniture is slightly frillier than ours. Her mother was apparently a collector of lace and now Ms. Rika uses the collection to spice up her house and life.
The neighbours are all friendly enough, I suppose. All of my friends live in other parts of town, and there aren’t very many children in my area – it’s mostly widowed or single women trying to make the best of things. There are various clubs that meet at intervals to discuss books, sew, knit, and do other crafty things with whatever scraps they could get hold of. Even though hope might be desperate and bleak within a family, whenever the ladies’ societies get together hope seems to be renewed in a way. Perhaps that is the beauty of having a warm, caring neighbourhood.
Letter #02 ~ Family and Standard of Living (Dec. 15th, 1935)
“Family” is an almost foreign idea sometimes when the Depression was at its worst. You see, my father was a very high-up person who worked for the bank. He was very respected and earned quite a bit for his salary. Every year he and my mother would buy me dresses and toys and books for Christmas, much to the envy of my classmates.
Of course, that was before my father lost his job. Nowadays, my mother works as a secretary at an obscure office somewhere in town while my father searches day and night for a job. I don’t see them very often. Most days, I walk to school and home by myself. I’m an only child, so until about eight at night, I am home by myself.
There are some people whose parents make a lot of money (at least for Depression standards). Ruthie’s father and mother are both doctors, so they make about $55, placing her family at the top of the social ladder these days. Sometimes I look at her with a bit of contempt… I used to be just like her, until the Depression had to come in and ruin everything.
I traded in my fancy childhood toys, like porcelain dolls and china tea sets, for simple and crude playthings like paper dolls and wooden figures. In fact, most children actually have to do work around the house since our parents are always out at work. In fact, “living” as decreased to only two things: working for the bare minimum, and trying to take our minds off things.
To tell the truth, life isn’t too bad. We work and do things, and we hardly have much time together as a family. When we do get together, however, it’s a real treat. Since it’s getting closer and closer to Christmas, my parents have started to enact our yearly ritual. We gather around the fireplace (with a feeble little fire) and my father reads aloud from a book titled “Christmas Treasures”, which is filled with heartwarming stories that makes me long for the old Christmas days when there was a huge tree which could hardly contain all of the presents and ornaments under and on it.
This year, my father brought home a feeble little tree to match the fire, which we decorated with paper ornaments crudely cut. There is a total of three tiny little cardboard boxes under it wrapped with too-familiar paper (which we have to reuse year after year) and accented with a few scraps of ribbon my mother probably borrowed from Ms. Rika.
Tonight, I curled up in a blanket next to the fire while my father sat on the large sofa. My mother sat next to me, still dignified but sagging slightly from exhaustion. She was knitting something. My father read to me a story about a man and a woman. The woman had beautiful long hair, but she chopped it off and sold it to buy her husband a chain for his watch. The husband had a very grand, ornate watch which he sold to buy his wife a pretty comb for her hair. In the end, the gifts were of no use, and it was impossible to buy back the things they had sold.
In a way, this reminds me of my family. We try our best to make things better for each other, but in the process that just reminds us more of the things that we’ve lost and will never get back for a long long time.
After the story, my father brought out a brown paper bag from inside his coat. I stared gleefully at the prize in his hand as he motioned for me to come over. I was hoping for some sort of pastry or sweet – the “treats” in our life had been reduced to food. However, I was delighted when he produced a small box of crayons! I had not had crayons for a long time – my old box from when I was four or five had long worn out, and the two or three boxes at school were more often than not broken or hoarded by the older girls.
My father watched as I emptied the contents of the yellowed box onto the floor for further inspection. There were all eight colours – red, orange, yellow, green, blue, violet, brown, and black. My father told me that he had found this boxset sitting on the table of a restaurant; almost as if someone had left it there for the sake of letting someone else pick it up. I was utterly filled with happiness. Had I been the selfish girl of seven years ago, I might have been disappointed that I wasn’t able to get a new 12-count set, but since it was the Depression, any small thing was enough to make me happy. I heartily thanked my father and then ran upstairs to write in here. I found an old invitation I had made for my Christmas party a few years ago and coloured the sketches I had made in pencil (there was hardly anything else to colour!) with my new crayons, taking care not to press too hard so I wouldn’t waste the waxy drawing utensils.
And with that, my day was complete, and I went to bed with a happy feeling. Perhaps this Christmas would be a little better after all.
Letter #03 ~ School and Friends (Dec. 20th, 1935)
In the Depression, a lot of teachers lost their jobs, so schooling in itself was hard. I remember reading in the news about a teacher who committed suicide in fear of losing his job. Thankfully, I am still able to attend class. However, since the school had closed for a year, everyone is now a year behind their actual class, which means I am in the sixth grade. Our teacher’s name is (or perhaps, was) Miss Molly, and it didn’t appear that she liked her job.
Miss Molly was a boarder, which means that she would be hosted by various student families and be given food and room instead of a monetary salary. She was very educated and from what my mother says, she was apparently a rich girl like our family. She grew up in New York, but later moved here to teach us all of our courses (mathematics, grammar, penmanship, sciences, social studies, and music). We don’t have a physical education class anymore, or an art class (the supplies cost too much).
Today, when all of us came to school, we found Miss Molly at her desk with a ruler in her hand, ready to start off the day’s activities. We all came in, huddled together for warmth. Our schoolhouse used to have a stove to keep us warm, but it was no longer there – the school sold it for supplies. I waved good-bye to my other friend Ruthie, who was actually in the seventh grade (her parents sent her to a private institution when the school had been closed, so she was in her appropriate class), and walked to my usual desk to sit with Kate. I am always very happy when it was a Tuesday, Thursday, or Friday, since those are the days that Kate is allowed to go to school. Since she is the eldest in a family of three, she attends school for three days. Her younger siblings, David and Daniella (twins) are in the second grade and attend school on Mondays and Wednesdays. The reason for this is because Kate’s family doesn’t have enough money to provide warm clothes for all the children, so they can’t go to school together. Kate says they only have one large coat. Either she wears the coat and goes to school, or the twins huddle together under it and waddle to school together.
Miss Molly clapped her hands and told the class to be still as she called out roll. I learned that Katherine had dropped out of school – her father (who had been ill for a time) had died, and her mother couldn’t afford her tuition anymore (even though Miss Molly is a boarder, we still need to pay a small sum of money to the school board for books and such).
We pulled out our reading books, which were falling apart at the seams. Miss Molly had on a rather cross look as she called for each person to stand and read. The trouble began, however, when she called on Matthew, a tall, skinny boy in the last row.
“Matthew, please continue reading.” Her command was met with silence.
“Matthew, the top of page sixty-eight, please.” More silence.
“Matthew! Go ahead and read or you shall have to copy lines.”
Murmurs spread throughout the room. I turned around and saw Jacob reach behind his desk and prod Matthew with a pencil. This seemed to do the trick, and Matthew sprang up quick.
“Y-yes, miss?” he stammered. It was too late, however. Miss Molly dragged him to the front of the room and made him stand before her desk while got ready to hit the palm of his hand with the ruler. But for once, Miss Molly’s deathblow did not strike fast enough before Matthew withdrew his hand and protested, “You have no right to hit me, miss!” I felt sympathy for him too – he seemed so desperate – his mother was very strict on education and didn’t like to hear that he’d been naughty in class, if sleeping was considered naughty.
“Sleeping in class,” Miss Molly snapped impatiently, who didn’t sound quite as cute as her name or appearance suggested. “That is enough to merit punishment and more. It is disrespectful to both your peers and your teacher.”
“It’s just so hard to stay awake!” protested Matthew. “My mother doesn’t have enough money to buy food for us, so I’m always up so late because I can’t sleep. I feel as if I’m starving to death half the time. I’m so hungry sometimes Jacob and I have to share food –” he clapped his hand over his mouth as he realized what he’d just said.
“Jacob!” Miss Molly shrilled. “What is that in your hand? Bring it out now.” Jacob sheepishly drew his hand out from under the desk, where a piece of dry shortbread was wedged between his fingertips.
It would be pointless to drag on the story too long – it is almost too dark to see, and candles can cost a lot to light, so let me finish my story rapidly. Miss Molly tried to take away his food and send both of the boys to stand before the board and write lines. However, for the first time since I’ve been in school, someone protested. Matthew and Jacob linked arms and stood their ground as Miss Molly tried to threaten them. She seemed so stressed and tired, I felt the utmost pity for her, but it was wrong that Matthew and Jacob should be in trouble for things that they needed.
The older boys took Matthew and Jacob’s side, while a few of the teacher’s-pet girls tried to scold them to no avail. I sank down in my desk and watched the fight brew. Kate whipped out her sketchpad (her treasured possession) and attempted to draw an image of the fight. A tiny thing just as a nap or shortbread could cause this much commotion? Well, we made such a racket that Miss Charlotte from the adjoining seventh grade room stepped in and attempted to break up the riot. I saw Ruthie through the door, who wore an expression that seemed to say, “I’m sorry your class is so immature.” The end solution was that Miss Molly decided to quit right then and there. She left on an outgoing train after school today, and I don’t suppose we’ll be hearing from her any time soon.
I have mentioned my friends many times, but I guess it is now is the time to tell about them in more detail. I have three very good friends – Kate, Linda, and Ruthie. Kate’s mother was actually part of my mother’s primary school class, so we have been friends ever since we were very young. She has a wonderful optimism for everything. I remember last year, when her father lost his job, I wouldn’t speak to Kate because she had decided not to attend my Christmas party. Shortly after Christmas Day, my father lost his job as well, and I realized why she had suddenly given up on luxuries – we simply couldn’t afford it anymore. Even though I had been a stuck-up, Kate was ready to forgive me, and when we play together, she makes everything seem so much better. Kate has an amazing imagination, and can make my tiny bedroom seem like the fanciest princess room. I envy her pretty curly brown hair – mine is straight and a caramel-coloured blonde.
Linda is in my class as well, but for the past month she has been sick. She has long black hair and is very opinionated. She has a mind for news and debate – she told me she aspires to be a journalist when she grows up. It is really interesting to note all three of our personalities. Kate is complete make-believe, I just like to elaborate on current events and turn them into fancy stories, and Linda sticks to the main points to make her news stories short and to the point.
As for Ruthie… Ruthie is a spoiled little princess. We used to be very best friends when we were younger because we were both rich girls, but since I’m no longer upper-class, I’ve sort of fallen out of her inner circle. We still speak to each other once in a while, but there is always an air of haughtiness and stiffness between us.
There are two things that the four of us have in common – we are all masters of the game Monopoly. Even the boys in our class cannot beat us at the game. We spent the entire summer last year perfecting our skills. In addition, all four of us have a vast stamp collection. Linda’s is the largest, much to our envy, but even the boys and girls of the higher classes stare greedily at our albums whenever we bring them to school.
I’m glad that all of us are able to stick together through all these trials. Perhaps someday, after the Depression, we can finally disregard any and all differences between us and be best friends always.
Letter #04 ~ Social and Political Events (Dec. 24th, 1935)
Today is Christmas Eve, but what difference it carries to a normal day isn’t quite evident to me. There was, of course, no school. After Miss Molly had left on her train, the school board decided that we should start Christmas break early. And all the better, they proclaimed – it would cost the school less money. This morning I awoke as usual and stumbled into the kitchen, where my mother was busy making some gingerbread. After eating my breakfast of a slightly stale biscuit, my father told me to get my coat and come with him – we were going into town for a Christmas treat. Naturally, I was delighted and scurried hastily to get ready.
We walked a good half mile into the center of the city. By this time, my hands and legs were so cold that we walked into a theatre to warm up. There were already many people there, ready to spend their Christmas Eve watching a film that could hopefully be more heartwarming and uplifting than what they were witnessing on the streets. Homeless people were lining the sidewalks. They had nowhere to go for Christmas Eve. At least at my house we had some slices of ham, potatoes, and mother’s gingerbread. The less fortunate had none.
My father paid the nickel for entry, and we settled into some seats in the theatre. The cushions on them were so torn that the hard plastic underneath could be felt through my coat. Gradually, more and more people came in, speaking low and huddling together for warmth.
The film started with a newsreel that seemed to crush any Christmas spirit anyone still had in them. We were shown images from other states where the number of homeless people were even more than our little Pennsylvanian town. Later, my father paid close attention to a news report about President Roosevelt’s New Deal. I didn’t really pay attention part the part where they explained that he was aiming to reform the financial system and encourage workers unions. I didn’t really want to hear more about this sort of thing. I did not even really understand why were in a Depression. All I knew was that people lost their jobs, and bad things would happen where children lost their parents, and food was scarce, and life could be at times a hard thing to go through.
There were many more newsreels before the final film started. It was a historical fiction tale about a girl in the pioneer times. Short, but sad. Her mother died of a sickness and her father did not know how to repair the damage that it had cost on the family’s well-being both in household and mental health. It reminded me a lot of our own country. We had fallen to an illness – an illness of poverty and depression, and our own president and government couldn’t help pick us back up and set the entire thing right.
After the film, there was a short preview advertising one of Walt Disney’s newest cartoons featuring Mickey and Minnie, who is my favourite character. I really want to see them, but I didn’t dare ask my father – it was kind enough of him to take me today. After the theatre, we walked around and looked into a few of the small shops that could still afford to be open. There weren’t many. The displays in the windows were of sad-looking nutcrackers, drooping dolls, stuffed animals that had lost their stuffing, and some scraps of fabric for decoration. I felt bad for the stores – no one had the opportunity to go inside them and search through the goods. And yet, the stores were still there, braving it day after day until they were forced to the point of death and closure.
That night, my father read The Night Before Christmas to me and sent me off to bed. I snuggled down into the covers, reviewing the gloomy year in my mind. Society had been reduced to glum treading down the road of life, stumbling over obstacles like poverty and hunger and unemployment. What lay at the end of the road, some of us may never know. It could be a long time until the Depression is over, or it could end in a few weeks. Whatever the outcome, I just hope that we can all be happy and survive this together. That’s all I ask.
Epilogue (Dec. 25th, 1935)
Mildred Alice Evangel awoke next morning, Christmas Day, to unwrap her presents. Her father had started a small fire in the fireplace, and her mother handed each person their respective presents. Mildred was surprised beyond belief when she unwrapped a small china doll that her father had scrimped and saved to buy for her. In her excitement, she tossed aside the wrapping paper. Her father had gone into the bathroom and her mother to the kitchen to prepare Christmas breakfast. While Mildred was busy examining her new treasure and sitting a bit too close to the fire, a corner of the wrapping paper caught the flames and before Mildred knew it, the fire had crawled out of the fireplace, into the living room, and had burned Mildred’s leg. A draft from the broken window helped spread the fire even further. Mildred called for help, and her parents tried to get the fire away from Mildred. This mistake of lingering too long in the living room allowed the fire to explore the house further, and when her father had succeeded in quelling the flame eating away at Mildred’s nightgown, she bolted out of the room and into her bedroom, scavenging under the covers for her diary. Her parents barged into her room to pull her out, but Mildred insisted, almost half-crazed, that she would not leave if her diary and doll were not with her. Eventually the fire trapped the family in the house. Mildred clung to her parents, sobbing and crying, “Now… I won’t ever live to the end of the Depression to see anyone be happy again…”